


wipe the blood from your face and your hands

by AustinB



Series: Bloodstream [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Biting, Eventual Smut, Hand Jobs, I'm Sorry, M/M, Nurse Steve, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Use of slur, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Vampires, just once and not by a main character, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustinB/pseuds/AustinB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s weird. The whole fucking thing is weird. </p><p>Steve’s sitting across from a vampire in a diner under harsh fluorescent lighting, and he still looks like a fucking GQ cover. Steve wonders if biting creates some sort of bond like it does on T.V. Maybe he should’ve asked that question before consenting to it.</p><p>“Do you have some kind of telepathic connection with me now that you’ve drank my blood?”</p><p>Bucky snorts into his coffee. Steve finds it oddly endearing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not a Churchgoer

Steve shifts on his feet on the train, eyeing with longing the otherwise empty seat that a drunk college student is using for his backpack. Dr. Scholl is a good man, but his orthopedic insoles are no match for a 36-hour shift. Steve can only be glad that Sharon shooed him away when she did (Outta here, Saint Rogers, you’re no good to anybody if you’re dead on your feet) or else he’d have gotten roped in for another eight.

It’s 2 a.m. on a Saturday morning and the train is packed with party people heading home from a night at the bars. He’s small as it is, but he keeps getting jostled and squeezed in tighter to the wall. He’s about to get snappy when the train stops and lets a majority of the most rambunctious drunks off.

He’s lucky enough to enjoy his job; even if the Army wouldn’t take him, he wound up being able to help save people after all. With as much time as he spent in hospitals when he was a kid, he surprised everyone by pursuing a career in nursing, but it suits him. He likes taking care of people. It’s a nice change from being taken care of all his life. He finally grew out of the childhood asthma, and new medicines take care of all the other ailments without too much trouble.

One thing he never quite grew out of, and they never did make a pill for, is his pigheaded persistence in sticking his nose into trouble.

As he walks from the station the four blocks to his apartment, he passes by a church playground. It looks sufficiently creepy in the moonlight, and he hurries past, until he hears the choked-off scream.

* * *

“Where’s Tony?”

Natasha shrugs, striding toward him in the foyer. Bucky sighs. He was supposed to meet him for drinks—a weak excuse for keeping tabs on him and they both knew it—and he’s two hours late.

“What good is Stark Watch 2015 if you’re not going to take it seriously?”

“He’s a grown ass man. One that I don’t even like very much, to be honest.”

“Tash, if he goes off the rails again, you know what Pierce will do to him.”

Natasha grinds her teeth. The last time they found Tony feeding outside of their grounds, Pierce nearly tore his head off.

“We’re going to have to do something about him,” Bucky says quietly. The lower level of the building is deserted at this time of night; not even security guards. There are cameras in the corners, but Bucky, as head of security, knows that there are no microphones.

“Which one?”

“You know which one.”

Both of them, probably. Tony is a reckless loose-cannon with a Problem, but he can be dealt with. Pierce has been getting suspicious and needlessly cruel over the last 50 or so years. Bucky doesn’t see it ending in anything other than a coup. He knows Tash will be with him when the time comes. Clint, too, and Tony, if he’s around. The rest of them will stay out of the way, aside from maybe Rumlow. But they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

“You look like you need to eat,” Bucky says in Russian. It’s true; she looks pale and gaunt. She always did go too long between feeding, punishing herself for something. Natasha rolls her eyes.

“That’s where I’m headed, mama.”

He smirks and kisses her cheek as they part ways.

Bucky finds Tony three hours later, after following his trail and hearing a woman scream, and he’s sufficiently pissed that he’s wasted half his night looking for him. He’s in a church parking lot, behind the abandoned playground equipment, holding a woman in his arms. She’s huffing and moaning as he laps at her neck, her fear apparently forgotten, and Bucky just barely checks his rage.

“Stark.”

Tony freezes, looks over his shoulder, then unceremoniously drops the woman on the ground. She squirms there; not dead, anyway.

“Bucky,” Tony starts, grief and guilt written across his face and in the tilt of his blood-smeared mouth.

“Save it. Get your shit—“

“Hey!” a deep male voice calls from the sidewalk. 

“Get your shit back to the Tower, _now_. And if you step one toe outside of your room before I get there I will fucking know.”

Tony blurs away. He looks shamed enough that Bucky believes he’ll obey; and Bucky needs to clean up his mess. He’s going to have to knock this guy out and take two unconscious humans to the nearest hospital; Maimonide’s, if he remembers correctly.

“Hey, get away from her!” the man is saying, and Bucky looks up, ready to land a punch, but stops short. The man is— well, he’s beautiful. He’s slim, from his cheekbones to his shoulders to his hips. By contrast his jawline is remarkably strong and his blonde hair is flopping over brilliant blue eyes. He looks young, but he’s wearing dark blue scrubs and Bucky can see the years in the set of his shoulders; the tilt of his head, like he knows he’s about to get his ass handed to him and is prepared for it.

The man opens his mouth to shout another warning, and Bucky does something he hasn’t done in 75 years; he runs away.

* * *

What. The. Fuck.

Steve is sitting in his apartment after bringing the woman _back_ to the hospital.

_Two puncture wounds on the neck over the jugular; clean, 4cm apart; severe blood loss._

What. The. Everloving. Fuck.

There’s no way. There’s just no way.

But if not _that,_ then how could he explain the way the man just…disappeared. Like he was moving too fast for Steve to see? How could he explain the ethereal beauty of him; porcelain skin, red lips, luminous blue eyes.

Those eyes haunt him for a full week. He tries to put it out of his mind, but he dreams of them, in sleep and in waking. Finds himself staring into them when he stocks the supply closet, in the pages of his books. He reads everything he can about…about (Say it.) vampires. From Bram Stoker to Stephanie Meyer and all the stupid fan sites on the Internet.

The woman recovers fully, the puncture wounds healing perfectly and remarkably fast, but remembers nothing about how she received the wounds. She was at the club with her friends, and then she woke up at the hospital. No drugs found in what blood was left in her system.

He has to know. It’s a long shot. Steve’s sure even if vampires exist, half the things said about them wouldn’t be true. But even if they’re real and even if he could find one— if it didn’t kill him immediately and if it agreed to let him use its blood, it almost surely wouldn’t be the miracle healing elixir in the storybooks. But he has to try.

It’s a terrible, horrible idea, but he goes back to the churchyard the next Saturday morning at 2 a.m. clutching (feeling stupid as hell but lacking any better alternatives) a clove of garlic and the wooden cross from above Peggy’s bed. She won’t know he borrowed it. The man almost certainly won’t be there, but he doesn’t know where else to start. 

Turns out to be pretty easy.

* * *

His name is Steven Grant Rogers. He nearly died no fewer than six times in his childhood— frail and sickly with a poor immune system— and now he works in a hospital.

Bucky’s good at finding these things out. It’s his job to vet companions, after all. He could find out things about a person that they didn’t even know. It was easy to get his address, easy to figure out his schedule— inconsistent though it is, he always works way too much. Even though Bucky knows it’s weird and almost the worst idea he’s ever had, he follows the beautiful man.

Follows him right to the churchyard where they kind of almost met a week ago. 

“You gonna cook me some Italian food with that garlic?” Bucky asks, leaning against the swing set. Steve flinches viscerally, eyes flying across the yard to find him, then looks down at the clove of garlic clutched in his hand.

He shrugs. “Wasn’t sure what else to try.” 

“That cross ain’t gonna do much either, unless you wanna try converting me.”

“Somethin’ tells me you’re not a churchgoer.”

Steve looks surprised at himself, and Bucky laughs. Steve is wearing jeans and a light jacket tonight, with brown boots. His hair is still floppy and his eyes are still bright. Bucky wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and Steve’s eyes track the movement. Good.

Bucky pushes off the swing set and takes a step toward him. Steve takes a step back.

“Why come back here?” Bucky asks, hoping he can charm Steve enough that he won’t turn the question around on him. He’s not sure what he would say. Steve takes a deep breath.

“I have some questions for you.”

Bucky takes another few casual steps toward Steve, whose feet have rooted to the spot. He's clutching his talismans with white knuckles and Bucky stops a few feet away from him.

“Shoot.”

Steve looks down, nervous, then back up, steely. “Can your blood heal people?”

Bucky nods. He can see where this is going. It could get him a couple weeks of solitary if Pierce found out, but he answers anyway. “Sure. Cuts, minor breaks, that sort of thing.”

“Cancer?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Never heard of anybody tryin' it though.”

“Would you— would you let me take some—? To try it?”

Bucky sees an opportunity here. He tilts his chin up. “What’s in it for me?”

Steve’s eyes widen, but only briefly. He may be small, but he's made of steel. “What do you want?”

“I want to taste you.” Steve sucks in a sharp breath. “Not much, you won’t even miss a pint. It won’t hurt,” Bucky promises with a wicked grin. His companions never had complaints; in fact, they seemed to look forward to their meetings with him.

Steve swallows hard, but there’s a set to his jaw that Bucky likes.

He nods once. “Ok.”

* * *

It’s a bad, bad, bad, bad idea, but Steve brings him back to the hospital. He figures straight from the vein will be best, if this is going to work, and he wants to try it as soon as possible. Peggy doesn’t have much time before the cancer spreads. She’s been deteriorating quickly; not awake for much more than a few hours a day. Steve misses talking to her on his rounds. She’d been such a vibrant person.

“What room?” Bucky asks (Bucky. What kind of a vampire is named Bucky?), casual and cool, hands in the pockets of his fucking painted on dark blue jeans.

“Uh. 302.”

“Meet you there,” he says, and then he’s just…gone.

Steve slinks in and creeps through the hallways he knows so well. He manages to avoid the staff, and when he gets to Peggy’s room, he finds Bucky sitting by her bedside, reading the cards her family has sent her. Steve bristles at the intrusion, then remembers he’s about to feed his patient this vampire’s blood.

Bucky drinks the water from the cup by the bed and then bites his own wrist with a horrible slick sound. He places his wrist over the cup until the drip drip of his blood stops. He looks up at Steve, then licks the blood from his wrist with the flat of his tongue. Steve is powerless to do anything but stare, and Bucky’s wrist is smooth and pale under the slight pink tinge of wiped-away blood. The cut has already healed.

He hands Steve the cup, and he draws several ounces into a syringe, then presses it into the IV on the back of Peggy’s hand.

He’s kind of hoping for a dramatic waking-up-with-a-gasp reaction, but Peggy goes on sleeping peacefully, the readouts on the monitor unchanged.

Bucky clears his throat behind him. “And the matter of payment?”

Steve nods. “Right. Uh, where should we?”

Bucky grins, and it goes straight to Steve’s knees. By some miracle his legs don’t collapse under him and he doesn’t even think he flinches, but he’s also becoming less and less aware of the world outside of Bucky’s blue-grey eyes. He wonders if this is a talent all vampires possess or if it’s specific to this particular one.

“Come back to my place.”

Which— obviously— absolutely not. Never let them take you to a second location, right? So Steve, in an act of remarkable clarity, shakes his head.

“No. Mine.”

Bucky grins again and nods, accepting.

They’re quiet on the train. Steve wonders if Bucky would normally just run wherever he needs to go and is annoyed with the slow human pace, but he shows no outward signs of it. He wonders a lot of things, and wonders most of all if he’ll ever get the answers to them.

Once they’re in Steve’s apartment, he realizes vaguely that he’s not much safer here than he would’ve been at Bucky’s place. There’s no place he’d be safe. Even if he wasn’t a vampire, Bucky could overpower him. He’s tall and broad, with thick arms and thighs and his eyes have a curious coolness Steve suspects speaks of things he might not want to hear.

Steve is standing in the living room awkwardly. What is the etiquette for a situation like this? Offer him water? Give him a tour?

Bucky saves him by taking the keys from him and setting them on the counter. He takes Steve by the hand and leads him over to the couch, where they sink down close together.

Bucky’s not warm like a regular person, but he’s not cold. It makes sense that he’d be sort of…room temperature, if anything could make sense in this situation. Bucky wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulls him a little closer.

“Just relax,” he breathes against his ear. Easier said than done. Bucky places his other hand on Steve’s hip, his thumb brushing up under his shirt.

“It won’t hurt. I endeavor to make it not only pain-free but enjoyable as well,” Bucky purrs against his cheek, and Steve feels his face heat. Bucky hums.

When Bucky dips his head to Steve’s neck, he braces for the pinch, but gets the soft press of Bucky’s plump lips instead. He sighs involuntarily, then feels another kiss, wetter this time, then Bucky licks and sucks at his skin, slowly working from his collarbone up to his ear.

When Bucky’s teeth pierce his skin, Steve’s answering moan is absolutely filthy; he’s never heard a sound like that come out of his mouth in his life. His fingers have come up to wind in Bucky’s hair and he’s slid down the couch so Bucky has him pinned against the cushions.

It hurts a little, but Bucky’s tongue is moving against his skin and he’s rolling his hips and Steve kind of wants him to _do it again._

Bucky sucks at his neck again and it’s…completely amazing. Steve’s hips cant up against Bucky’s thigh and Bucky presses him harder into the couch.

* * *

When he’s finished, Bucky licks Steve’s neck until he’s satisfied the wounds have closed up, then trails his hand down Steve’s ribcage to his thigh and pulls it up over his hip.

Steve’s jeans do nothing to hide the hard (surprisingly large) line of his cock and Bucky wants nothing more than to tear the offending denim that’s covering the man’s body.

As Bucky presses hot kisses across his neck and up his jaw, Steve freezes.

“Is this part of the deal?” he warbles. 

Bucky stops immediately and pulls back. Steve is looking a little dazed, which is normal— good, even. But there’s also a fleck of fear in his blue eyes. That won’t do.

“No,” Bucky says. “Many times they…no. You’ve held up your end of the bargain.” He gently rights Steve and then stands, adjusting himself in his pants.

“Why don’t you let me take you out for breakfast?” Bucky asks. He’s not sure why, but he’s not quite ready to let Steve out of his sight.

Steve rattles his head. “Do you— do that kind of thing?”

Bucky shrugs, and even though he’s fully aware of his ridiculous posturing, he can’t seem to stop himself. “I can do whatever I want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Trashville population 1. Please enjoy your stay.
> 
>  
> 
> Title from Go To Sleep by The Avett Brothers
> 
> lay back lay back/ go to sleep my man  
> wipe the blood/ from your face and your hands  
> forgive yourself/ if you think you can  
> go to sleep/ go to sleep my man


	2. Sweeter Than Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows what to expect this time, and somehow it makes it even better; the slight pinch of his teeth, the pressure afterward, the feeling of being wanted— needed; if he had an addictive personality, Steve would probably find himself craving it.

It’s four in the morning, but Steve keeps strange hours anyway, and he knows of a good 24 hour diner that’s just a five minute walk from his apartment.

When he stands from the couch, he wobbles on his feet and Bucky takes him by the elbow. He forgets to lock the door, so Bucky throws the deadbolt for him and tucks the keys in Steve’s jacket pocket.

It’s weird. The whole fucking thing is weird.

Steve’s sitting across from a vampire in a diner under harsh fluorescent lighting, and he still looks like a fucking GQ cover. Steve wonders if biting creates some sort of bond like it does on T.V. Maybe he should’ve asked that question before consenting to it.

“Do you have some kind of telepathic connection with me now that you’ve drank my blood?”

Bucky snorts into his coffee. Steve finds it oddly endearing.

“Hell no. You been watching True Blood?”

Steve grimaces. Bucky grabs a piece of bacon from Steve’s plate and crunches on it with his perfect white teeth (nothing sharp, he notes); he hadn’t ordered anything for himself.

“We can go out in daylight. It gives me a wicked headache, and sunglasses are critical, but there’s absolutely no sparkling whatsoever. We can hear, see and smell things better than humans, that’s true. There’s no sort of telepathy or any other weird powers. Umm, garlic doesn’t work, you know that. Or crosses.”

“Silver bullets?”

“That’s werewolves. Which, by the way, not real.”

“So what does work?”

Bucky gives him a dark look, and a shiver races down Steve’s spine, but then he’s smiling again, like the sun rising after a long cold night.

“And give you the secret weapon? Yeah right.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Like I’m gonna try and kill you.”

“You got a mean streak, I can tell.”

The banter is alarmingly pleasant and strangely familiar, like they’ve been doing it all their lives. And the way Bucky looks at him sometimes, like he wants to get him out of his clothes, is startling to say the least.

“Do I like, taste particularly good or something?” Steve wonders, because why else would Bucky be trying to charm him? (And succeeding at it.)

Bucky smiles. “No. You all taste about the same to us. Though you do have a little bit of a…warm, stubborn tang,” he chuckles.

Steve wants to ask more about it…about vampires…about _him_ , but the diner is starting to fill up.

Bucky walks him back to his apartment with his hands in his pockets.

“You working today?”

Steve nods. “Later tonight.”

“I wouldn’t expect too much, but I hope it works for your friend.”

“Thanks, me too.”

Bucky grins and dips to press an unexpectedly sweet kiss to his cheek.

“See ya around.”

“Oh, uh,” Steve stammers, not quite sure what he wants, let alone how to ask for it.

“I already put my number in your phone,” Bucky says with a wicked grin, walking backwards down the sidewalk for a few steps before turning around and just…disappearing. Steve will never get used to that.

He probably won’t ever have the chance to, anyway.

* * *

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Natasha says by way of greeting, striding in without even knocking on the door.

“What?” Bucky says incredulously, a book in his lap in his favorite spot by the window. 

“Taking an unvetted companion? Pierce has killed for less than that.”

He won’t insult her by asking how she knows.

“You barge into my floor, while I’m _in my chair_ , throwing around –“

“Bucky, this isn’t a joke.”

“I know, because it’s not funny. Pierce doesn’t need to know. I probably won’t even see him again anyway.” Which is not at all true and Natasha probably knows it. Even if Steve doesn’t call, Bucky will find a way to see him again. There was never any question of it.

Bucky remembers the days when their family could feed from wherever they wanted, as long as they were discreet about it. New members were shadowed until they could be trusted, but then they had their freedom. Which is what this life is all about.

Now there’s more fear than freedom in the Tower and Natasha’s face is telling the same story.

“If I found out, he can find out. Please be careful, Bucky,” she pleads, touching his chin with one finger. He takes her hand and presses a kiss to her palm. It’s way too intimate a gesture, and she slaps him playfully on the cheek before turning and stalking silently out.

* * *

Peggy’s white hair is piled atop her head neatly. Sharon must have combed it during her shift. There might be a little more color in her face, but otherwise she’s unchanged. Steve tries not to feel disappointed. Bucky had warned him it probably wouldn’t work, anyway.

He still watches her carefully, for a full week. Still no change. He’s wondering if repeated injections would have any effect when the car crash comes in.

One adult dead, one adult in critical, one child in critical. These are the hardest. The ER is a flurry and at the end of his shift he has blood on his scrubs and the two survivors are stable, but barely. Her father wakes up groggy and incoherent, but the little girl doesn’t. The brain trauma is extensive and she falls into a coma.

Steve goes home in a trance and sleeps for eight glorious uninterrupted hours.

The decision is easy, really, but once he makes it, he agonizes over his cell phone for another hour. What does one say to a vampire when requesting their blood? The first time he hadn’t put much thought into it, fear making the words roll easy off his tongue, but now that he knows Bucky won’t kill or rape him (probably)? It gets a little more complicated; especially if he wants this to go on for any length of time. (The _good_ he could do, if it worked. The hopeless cases he could _save_ , instead of having to watch their families bow in on themselves and break.)

So, how do you broach the subject of a blood-for-blood deal with the sexiest man you’ve ever seen, who also just so happens to be a mythical creature?

YOU: Can I ask another favor?

Bucky’s response comes two and a half minutes later.

BUCKY BARNES: What kind of favor?

YOU: The same kind as before.

The knock at the door 55 seconds later startles him into an undignified yelp, his phone clattering on the floor.

No. Way.

Yes.

Bucky’s standing on the other side of the door with a half smirk, wearing blue jeans and a zip-up hoodie. He looks so casual and so different from last time that Steve’s brain has a hard time reconciling this man with the one who’d bit him last week— the one who’d _drank his blood_.

“Can I come in?” he asks, amused.

“Uh.” Steve can’t even finish the sentence, just steps aside. When Bucky leans against his kitchen counter, he asks, “Were you…waiting out there?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I don’t make a habit of waiting around for humans. I’m just fast, is all.” He wouldn’t be…boasting…for Steve. No, that would be ridiculous.

“Ok, so the speed is true. Super strength?”

“True.”

“Hm.”

Steve goes to the bathroom and takes out the supplies he’d swiped from the hospital; just one syringe kit, they won’t miss it. He even takes out the band aids, then huffs and puts them back.

He and Bucky sit on the couch and Steve lays out his things on the coffee table. Bucky’s watching him closely and it’s making the back of his neck sweat.

“Who’s this for?”

“A girl in a coma.”

Bucky only nods as Steve finds the vein. When he’s filled up one vial, Bucky says quietly, “That’s enough.”

Steve puts the vial in the fridge— next to the jar of mayonnaise for god’s sake what is his life?— then sits on the couch next to Bucky. When he looks up, the hunger in his eyes takes his breath away. Like he’s a delicacy and Bucky hasn’t eaten in days. Which very well may be true, Steve doesn’t know what the fuck is going on these days.

“I was glad to hear from you,” Bucky says as he leans in and noses just under Steve’s ear.

“Y-Yeah?”

“Mhm.” The hum vibrates through Steve like a jackhammer, and Bucky presses light kisses up and down and across his neck and jaw, until they’re not light anymore but wet and hot.

He knows what to expect this time, and somehow it makes it even better; the slight pinch of his teeth, the pressure afterward, the feeling of being wanted—needed; if he had an addictive personality, Steve would probably find himself craving it.

Bucky licks at his neck afterward to clean the spilt blood, then sits back to look into Steve’s face.

* * *

 He looks wrecked; absolutely, beautifully wrecked and Bucky wants him so bad he can hardly speak.

“We need to renegotiate our terms.”

“Shouldn’t you have done that first?” Steve’s a little breathless, and hard against Bucky’s stomach.

Bucky shrugs, still hovering over him. “I can do what I want, remember?”

Bucky thinks about including sex in the price, but actually doesn’t want to scare Steve off. “Every time I see you, it’s more dangerous for me. I want to feed from you twice for this blood.”

“Okay," Steve says without hesitation.

Bucky blinks. “O-kay. Deal. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

Bucky’s waiting for him at his door when Steve gets off work the next evening. He’s smiling as he comes down the hall and when he looks up and catches sight of Bucky, he freezes for a second. His eyes widen briefly, but his smile doesn't falter.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “You look happy.”

“Yeah, uh, the little girl woke up this morning.”

Seventy five years of feeling like a parasite on the human race. He’s never been glad for what he is the way some are, never relished it, but now he’s responsible for saving a life. Partially responsible, anyway. His smile is soft and feels strange on his lips.

“That’s great.”

Steve smiles back at him and it’s warm, no trace of fear or anxiety. He unlocks the door and leads Bucky inside. Shucking his jacket onto the coffee table, he heads straight for the couch and flops down onto it. He looks back at Bucky expectantly.

What is that, in his eyes? In the corner of his smile? Excitement? Anticipation?

“What?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

After Bucky laps the blood from his neck— sweet, sweeter than before, why is that?— he kisses along his jaw to his lips. Steve opens his mouth for him eagerly, tangling fingers in his hair and curling their tongues together. It feels so good that Bucky forgets for a moment. He pushes his hips down against Steve’s to grind their cocks together and Steve freezes.

Bucky jerks back. “Sorry.”

“No, no, no,” Steve says, but offers no other explanation. Bucky stands and shoves a hand through his hair, feeling uncharacteristically uncomfortable.

“I need some more blood,” Steve says suddenly. “I mean,” he rattles his head, “I think I should probably have some on hand. In case of emergencies? Could I?”

Bucky grins, his discomfort washed away by the blush on Steve's skin and the blown blackness of his pupils.

“Ask and ye shall receive.”


	3. Eat Talk Bite Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve melts into the couch as Bucky kisses his collarbones and behind his ears. God, he needed this. He thinks he might say as much when Bucky’s teeth pierce his skin, but all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears, so he can’t be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a shitty couple days so here's an early update.

Bucky asks for three feedings for the three vials of blood he gives the next night, and Steve thinks it a small price to pay.

When Bucky sees him step off the elevator the next day— night— whatever the hell— he frowns.

“You look like shit.”

Steve glares at him with all the ferocity he can muster after the longest day ever. He unlocks his door and Bucky closes it behind them.

“Relax, you know I think you’re pretty.”

He didn’t know that actually, although, “That’s not any better.”

Steve sits at the counter as Bucky rifles through his fridge. Suddenly there’s a sandwich in front of him.

“Eat this.”

Steve looks up at him, confounded. Bucky shrugs.

“If you’re gonna be losing blood you need your strength.”

Steve eats the sandwich obediently. Bucky leans his elbows on the counter and watches him.

“Bad day?”

Steve can’t even talk about it, he just glares at the lettuce that has fallen from between the slices of bread.

“The things people do to each other,” he mutters, then takes another bite. Bucky nods, but is silent.

Steve melts into the couch as Bucky kisses his collarbones and behind his ears. God, he needed this. He thinks he might say as much when Bucky’s teeth pierce his skin, but all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears, so he can’t be sure. He’s vaguely aware of Bucky’s hand on his stomach, under his shirt and sliding beneath the waistband of his scrub pants.

He’s still sucking the blood from his neck when he wraps his hand around Steve’s cock and Steve has the wherewithal to worry his heart might not actually be able to handle it. But then he’s stroking and Bucky bites him again, just above the first bite, maybe not hard enough to puncture but he can’t really tell because he’s coming harder than he ever has in his life.

He blinks back to reality and looks down at the cum on his shirt, dazed and boneless. Bucky looks from his face to his shirt and back again, his brows knotted together with concern.

“Sorry?”

Steve can’t even help it— he throws his head back against the couch and laughs. When he pulls himself together, almost a full minute later, Bucky’s looking a little skittish and he leaves abruptly shortly after, before Steve can reciprocate. Which he finds himself a little disappointed about.

* * *

“When were you…turned?” Steve asks as Bucky ladles the soup into his bowl.

Bucky had brought a bag of groceries with him this time. (What.)

He hadn’t been at the door when Steve got home— the disappointment that punched his gut was a surprise— but had knocked minutes later carrying a brown bag with a baguette and carrots sticking out the top.

“You keep fuckall in your fridge,” was his only explanation, and he proceeded to make the most amazing smelling soup Steve’s had since his mom passed, moving about his kitchen like he'd always been there.

“1945. I was 27.”

“Wow, so you know all about jazz and swing and the Great Depression.”

“ _All_ about it.” He doesn’t sound bitter or sad though.

It’s not an interview, but Steve is curious and Bucky’s actually very forthcoming, so he digs a little more.

“You said every time you see me it’s more dangerous for you. Why?”

Bucky licks a little broth off his finger and Steve's eye twitches.

“We’re not supposed to feed outside pre-approved humans. It’s very controlled.” He gets the impression Bucky disagrees with this practice.

“What’ll they do to you if they find out?”

Bucky shrugs. “Slap on the wrist.” Steve doesn’t think that’s entirely the truth.

“What’ll _I_ get?”

“A big check and a warning, probably. They can’t afford to leave a trail of bodies.”

Somewhere, there’s a group of superhuman undead urban legends who have the power to kill him at literally any moment they choose, and yet he breathes a sigh of relief because _one of them_ says they _probably_ won’t kill him. Jesus Christ.

It becomes part of the package. Eat, talk, bite, kiss. Bucky hasn’t touched him again, other than to grind down on him reflexively when he’s drinking from his neck, and Steve hasn’t had the courage to initiate it. Knows he probably shouldn’t, no matter how much he wants to see where that’ll take them.

But they kiss now, which Steve thinks is an ok tradeoff. Bucky’s lips are soft sometimes and hard others, but always perfect, always just what he wants. He nips at Steve’s lips, sweeps his tongue across them and Steve will moan and gasp and not even be embarrassed about it because Bucky grins at him when he pulls away.

* * *

Bucky huffs from where his head is shoved inside Steve’s fridge.

“You don’t ever go shopping do you?”

“I don’t have a lot of time. I mostly eat at the hospital cafeteria.”

Bucky closes the fridge and frowns, not a sad or an angry frown, but worse; disappointed. Steve is sneaking glances at him as he lays out the syringe and vials on the countertop.

“Ok, let’s go out for dinner.”

It seems redundant, or superfluous or something, to go out for dinner just for Steve, but he agrees because he’s hungry and they haven’t been anywhere outside of his apartment together since that first breakfast they shared. He finds himself oddly excited about the prospect.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Bucky says, “Put on something nice.” The door slams and he’s gone. Steve looks down at his scrubs.

“Nice?” The fuck?

He settles on dark jeans, chucks and a light blue button-down he bought in college that somehow still fits him. He rolls the sleeves up onto his forearms because he remembers something Sharon had said about it. It’s still chilly at night, but it’s spring and the snow has almost all melted so he doesn’t bother with a jacket.

Twenty minutes later, Bucky knocks on the door again and Steve opens it, keys in hand and nearly swallows his tongue.

Bucky’s hair is slicked back and he’s wearing an actual goddamn three-piece suit. It’s grey, to match his eyes, and the collar of his white shirt is unbuttoned. He’s leaning against the doorframe in an exaggerated flounce.

“Ready, doll?”

Steve punches him in the stomach. The ‘oof’ is just for show, he’s sure, but it still makes him grin.

They walk to a restaurant that has a line out the front door. That’s when things start getting weird. And not because Bucky’s a vampire.

Well, not _just_ because of that.

Bucky bypasses the line and holds his arm in front of him for Steve to go in first. It’s the kind of swanky place Steve has never seen in his life. The kind of place you wait six months for a reservation to. And the maitre’d knows Bucky by name.

“Mr. Barnes, lovely to see you. Table for two?”

They’re shown through a curtained doorway to a dimly lit room with six tables. There are couples dining at two of them, and they tip their chins at Bucky.

Steve is pretty sure this is a date, but Bucky’s still smiling and chatting like they always do, and he’s not trying to touch his knee under the table or anything, so Steve forces himself to relax.

Bucky orders dinner for the both of them, and a bottle of champagne.

“Christ, Bucky,” Steve mutters when the waiter leaves.

“What? I have expensive tastes.” He's grinning like he's trying not to, and it makes Steve feel bubbly, like he's already had a glass of Dom.

The food is amazing, and the champagne and Bucky’s teasing help him chill out. Bucky eats too, though he says that it’s “just for sensation.” He gets all the nutrition his body needs from blood (Steve’s blood), but his digestive system still works the same way it always has.

Steve is determined to sneak a look at the bill, even though he’s sure it’ll make him pass out, but the waiter doesn’t even bring one.

“So what, you own that place or something?” Steve asks when they’re on the street again.

“My family does.”

“Family like, family or family like, coven?”

Bucky grimaces. “The second one, except ew. We’re not witches. We’re more like the mob. But strangely aboveboard.”

Steve glances up at a store window as they pass; the bright lights illuminate glittering silver watches. He doesn’t really acknowledge them, and he wouldn’t even have remembered he looked at them except that Bucky looks over his head sharply to see and lingers for a half a beat. Of course; the guy’s got great taste and apparently, money to burn.

Back at Steve’s apartment, Bucky folds his suit jacket carefully on the back of the chair and sits down on the couch. When Steve moves to sit next to him, Bucky puts his hands on his hips and pulls him down onto his lap instead.

He tugs on Steve’s shirt to get him to lean down for a kiss, then rests his hands lightly on Steve’s thighs. In this position, straddling Bucky’s lap, he has a sense of control, of power. He knows it’s just an illusion, but he takes advantage of it. He cradles Bucky’s face in his hands, mapping out the cut of his jaw as he kisses him, fingers digging and twisting in the softness of his hair.

Bucky moves to kiss down his neck and Steve rolls his hips, emboldened by the hard line of Bucky’s cock beneath him. Bucky unbuttons Steve’s shirt, but leaves it on him. He dips his hands under the fabric and smoothes them over Steve’s back and down to his ass.

Something about the new angle, or Bucky’s hands palming his ass to grind them together has Steve panting.

“Steve, _Steve,_ ” Bucky whispers against his skin before he bites. Stars explode behind his eyes and he almost comes just from that. When awareness returns, he’s on his back on the couch with Bucky hovering over him, looking half concerned and half smug.

“There you are.”

“Musta been …the champagne.”

“Uh huh,” Bucky murmurs against his lips, and kisses him once. “Goodnight.”

Steve realizes he never thanked him for dinner, but when he looks up, he’s gone.

* * *

Bucky’s back on his floor in the Tower, pretending not to miss the warmth of Steve’s apartment when he realizes he forgot to give him blood. 


	4. Property of Bucky Barnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the penthouse, Pierce pours them both tumblers of bourbon from the crystal decanter at the bar while Bucky looks out the large windows and prays to anyone who’s listening that Pierce doesn’t move closer, doesn’t touch him. He knows himself; knows he'll do whatever Pierce wants, if it might protect his secret. Protect Steve.

All this unresolved sexual tension is giving Steve's right wrist a workout. Every time Bucky leaves, he races to the bathroom to jerk off. Lately though, he's just started shucking his pants and slouching down on the couch, where it still smells like Bucky, and it's easier to pretend it's his hand— or his mouth.

Bucky seems just as affected, the hard line of his dick clearly straining against his pants, but he always leaves after taking his due and making sure Steve will be ok— with a glass of water on the couch and a kiss. Except once.

When he’s finished healing the bite on Steve’s neck, he gets him a glass of water and pours himself a glass of bourbon from the cupboard (had he always had that or had Bucky brought it over?). He sits back down on the couch by the time Steve pulls himself upright and flicks on the T.V.

“No cable?”

“Netflix.” Steve is getting used to the disorienting feeling of _what the actual fuck_ in his life and is almost no longer surprised by it.

He puts on Orange is the New Black because he “still isn’t caught up” (fucking vampires). It takes Steve an episode and a half to wind down from the high and for his dick to soften enough for him to fall asleep against the flat throw pillow.

When he wakes up Bucky’s gone.

* * *

It’s just a plain ‘ole bad idea. Start to finish, up down sideways and backward.

Watching Steve sleep (no one has any right to eyelashes that pretty) Bucky has the wrenching realization that this won’t last. He’s going to go on living for hundreds and hundreds of years, and in sixty or so, Steve is going to be withering. His heart may fail— hell, any of his frail human organs could crap out on him. Not to mention the laundry list of ailments humans are so prone to.

And yet he knows he’s going to go gums-deep in him again the next chance he gets. He knows it’s going to break his heart. It already kind of has.

Bucky wants to write him sonnets and throw gifts at his feet and fuck him into the mattress. He’s so fucking gone on Steve Rogers it’s tragic.

He can’t stop thinking about him, and it’s starting to interfere with his well-being. Taking him to The Red Room was stupid and reckless. Everyone in that place knows Pierce. But then, they also know Bucky, so he’s not all that worried about anyone saying anything directly to his maker.

But things have a way of getting around.

* * *

“I’m getting bigger,” Steve says when Bucky knocks once, then walks in.

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “Odd choice of words, but I’m happy to see you too.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant. Look at this." He waves at his chest, where his shirt is stretched tight across his chest. "I’m about to split this shirt in half.”

He hadn’t even shrunk it in the wash; he reads the care labels, thank you very much. And his jeans are tighter too, maybe even a little shorter.

“Congratulations, you’re now a child’s size medium.”

Steve glares, and Bucky puts his palms up.

“Sorry, sorry. You look good,” he offers. Steve tries not to preen and only partially succeeds. He’s sure Bucky notices.

“Did you do this?”

Bucky shrugs. “Maybe. A nip here,” he bites down on his lower lip, “and you get a tiny bit of my blood to heal the wounds every time. This has never happened before, though. But then, none of the other companions had been—”

“Frail? Sickly?”

Bucky gives him a pleading look and Steve sighs. He can’t be too mad at him for the truth. Not his fault anyway.

“Don’t you like it?” Bucky asks carefully.

He can handle a 36-hour shift now without being sore the next day. He can hear almost as good out of his left ear as he can his right. His eyes no longer have those purplish black circles under them from 4 hours of sleep every night. Sharon had noticed.

(“Are you getting laid?” she’d asked suspiciously. Steve had nearly jumped out of his skin.)

“No, I do,” Steve says, looking down at slightly thicker forearms than he’s used to. “Is it permanent?”

Bucky shrugs again. “Probably as long as I keep feeding from you. Not sure though; might revert if I stop.”

Steve is oddly comforted by that _if_.

* * *

Garment boxes start showing up two days later. Not through the post, oh no. Hand-delivered by a man in a suit. They say Macy’s on the top and with shaking hands, Steve opens the first one. There, wrapped unassumingly in white tissue paper is a pair of honest-to-god made-in-the-USA dark-dyed denim skinny jeans that probably cost twice as much as all the clothes currently in his closet.

He’s not sure what he expected. A leather jacket with “PROPERTY OF BUCKY BARNES” embroidered on the back?

It fucking might as well have been.

But it’s not like he’s _not_ going to wear the clothes— three pairs of jeans, a blue three-piece suit, four T-shirts, two sweaters and four button-downs. Of course he’s going to wear them. They fit him perfectly (Bucky’s spent enough time plastered against him to know his size and the way he likes his jeans to sit apparently?) and he’s drowning in student loans. He won’t have to buy himself clothes for years.

“Lookin’ good, doll,” Bucky smirks when he sees him. Steve’s still too flabbergasted to be mad.

“This is way too much.”

“Hey, we take care of each other, right?”

Steve thinks it’s a terribly lopsided relationship, but doesn’t want to draw too much attention to that fact for fear Bucky will wise up. Not to mention the possessive way Bucky's looking at him is making his mouth go dry.

“Way. Too much.”

Bucky shrugs. “Nah.” And that’s the last that’s spoken of it.

After Bucky feeds, after he gets Steve a glass of water and presses a kiss to the top of his head and leaves, Steve notices a blue box on the counter. There’s no bow, no note. He opens it, and inside is a glittering silver watch, sized for his own slender wrist.

The underside of the face is engraved: BB to SR

If it was a golden band it couldn’t be more clear.

* * *

Bucky’s smiling in the elevator. He’s imagining Steve on the couch, lips red and wet, pupils blown, wearing the clothes Bucky'd bought him. It had taken all of his willpower to keep his hands out of the blonde man's made-in-the-USA skinny jeans. He can admit to himself that providing for Steve made something possessive in him sit up and growl. He's already thinking up ways he can finagle Steve into letting him give him more things.

He’s on his way to see him, now. Bucky's fingers have been itching to touch him since he'd left the last time, and his dick is preemptively stirring.

But when the elevator doors open into the lobby, Pierce is standing there, hands in the pockets of his suit pants. Bucky hasn’t seen him out of his penthouse in weeks, where he'd holed up to run operations, and he gets a bad feeling under his ribs.

“James,” he says with a smile, like he expected to see him here. “Just the man I wanted to see.” Pierce doesn’t ask where he was headed, and Bucky’s sure that doesn’t bode well for him.

“Oh? I’m honored,” he says instead, frozen in place as Pierce gets in the elevator beside him and presses the button for the penthouse. 

“It’s been too long since we sat down together.”

His voice is deceptively gentle, but Bucky knows him well enough to be on guard. Or maybe that’s just his guilty conscience.

“You’re a busy man these days.”

“Not too busy to spend time with my favorite child.”

Bucky turns toward him and grins, in effort to appear nonchalant. “Don’t let Tash hear you say that.”

Pierce waves a hand. “She never cared for being a favorite, anyway.”

In the penthouse, Pierce pours them both tumblers of bourbon from the crystal decanter at the bar while Bucky looks out the large windows and prays to anyone who’s listening that Pierce doesn’t move closer, doesn’t touch him. He knows himself; knows he'll do whatever Pierce wants, if it might protect his secret. Protect Steve.

Pierce sinks down on the white leather sofa and gestures for Bucky to do the same. He sits close, closer then he wants to, the way he would’ve before he started going around breaking the patriarch’s rules behind his back.

They talk about nothing for a few moments, but Bucky’s sure Pierce’s every word is calculated. Calculated for what, he's not sure yet. So he tries to speak as honestly as he can.

“You've been making me proud as Chief Security Officer. I trust everyone is behaving properly?” Pierce swirls the amber liquid in his crystal glass and sips, eyes flicking up to Bucky’s.

“As far as I know. Tony’s doing well.”

“Yes. Tony. I was lenient last time because I know you like him. But he knows the rules just like everyone else. Next time I won’t be so kind.”

For a fraction of a second, Bucky struggles with a response before he settles on, “I’ll keep him in line.”

Pierce smiles fondly. “I have no doubt you will.” He stands. “I’ve kept you long enough.”

Bucky’s only half through with his bourbon but he sets it on the coaster and stands too. Pierce hugs him at the door, a lingering squeeze that Bucky returns readily, eager to leave. 

He texts Steve once he's safely back on his own floor.

**YOU:**   _Can't make it tonight, something came up at work_

He’s jittery, riddled with guilt, and he’s not sure if Pierce would have him followed. Their conversation had seemed innocuous enough, but it was just on the wrong side of threatening and Bucky's hackles are up.

**STEVE:** _Hope everythings ok. tomorrow?_

Bucky throws his phone across the kitchen, where it clatters on the floor and slides under the refrigerator. He scrubs his hands down his face and takes a deep steadying breath. He shouldn’t see Steve again. He really shouldn’t. Pierce has become unpredictable. The rules handed down through their family for hundreds of years have been losing their weight with him. There's no telling what he would do if he found out his _favorite child_ has been lying to him.

Still, the next evening, Bucky drives, takes buses and walks around the city for two hours before finally going to Steve's apartment. If someone was following him, they lost him in Manhattan. It's the most Bucky can do now. He's the worst kind of selfish, but being without Steve isn't a option.

He'd thought Tony had a Problem, but Bucky's addiction is just as bad.

* * *

“I’m mad at you.” Sam leans his ass against the counter next to where Steve is sitting, looking at the clipboard in his hands.

“I’m sure I deserve it. What for this time?"

“You didn’t tell me you got a boyfriend.”

Steve freezes. “I don’t.”

“Like hell. Shoes without holes and a shiny watch? You haven’t bought yourself so much as a new pair of socks in five years.”

“Didn’t realize I was working with Sherlock Holmes,” he mutters.

“Who is he?”

“He’s not my—“ Steve trails off. Someone who’s _not his boyfriend_ buying him outrageous gifts seems kind of worse. “A guy I met in the park.” Steve cringes. That makes him sound like a prostitute.

“If you don’t wanna tell me you met him at a sex club that’s fine.” Sam pauses for Steve’s groan. “What’s his name?”

“James, and that’s all I’m telling you.”

“Why? A Google search gonna show me somethin’ I don’t like?”

It’d probably show him a black and white picture of a handsome boy in a WWII Army uniform and he probably wouldn’t like it near as much as Steve did.

Sharon trudges up, coffee in hand, and presses a tired kiss to Sam’s lips.

“We talking about Steve’s sugar daddy?”

Steve plunks his forehead down on his clipboard.

“Give ‘im hell,” Sam says to Sharon, then heads home for the night. It must be hard for them, living together but on opposite schedules.

Steve wishes for those kinds of relationship problems. Truth is, aside from the weird blood-exchange deal and the oddly chaste yet super sexual thing they have going on, Bucky might as well be his boyfriend. Steve bites the inside of his cheek so Sharon won't see him smiling.

* * *

The next time Bucky feeds from him, he rocks against Steve before he bites and murmurs into his ear.

“Let me fuck you, Stevie. It’ll make it so much better. It’ll be so good, I promise.” He thrusts against Steve as if to prove his point. Steve moans and is rewarded with another thrust. He's so close to coming in his pants that it's making it a little hard to think straight.

He doesn’t doubt it would be _good_. He’s sure it would blow his fucking mind. But if he’s to maintain any shred of control in this situation? He shakes his head and Bucky growls against his skin, but doesn’t ask again.

He doesn’t kiss him afterward either, and Steve’s not sure if it’s punishment or if it’s because Bucky’s not sure where they stand. It certainly feels like a punishment.

Steve still owes him another feeding, and then he’ll ask for more blood. Maybe Bucky will up the price again. Maybe they should just stop keeping track.

* * *

But the vampire who’s waiting outside his door the next night isn’t Bucky; darker hair, boxier frame, eyes hard and unkind. The swell of fluttery anticipation that gathers in his chest every night turns to stone, but before he can turn to run, unyielding hands clamp down hard on his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more insight into Pierce and Bucky's relationship, read the story of how Bucky was turned here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5648959
> 
> I'm interested to know how you guys found me/this story. Tumblr? A rec? A specific search? 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your support! I love you!


	5. Too Many Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His supply of Bucky’s blood is running low. He’s not sure how little he can give a patient in order for it to work, but he’s pitiful at hoarding it. A kid gets a papercut these days and he runs for the vial.
> 
> He just needs some good news in his life.

Bucky’s teeth are on edge as he takes the elevator up to Pierce's floor. Being summoned by his maker never has ended in anything good for him. He usually winds up snapping someone’s neck or seducing some Senator’s wife and he’s not a huge fan of either one. And now there are several other possible reasons for the "Come see me" text, none of which are good.

He’d texted Steve to let him know he’d be late, but had gotten no reply. Bucky’s worried he pushed the boundaries of their relationship too far by asking for sex. He knows Steve is reluctant to a physical relationship— he wants to maintain a vestige of control, as if Bucky would do anything to harm him— but the sounds he was making when Bucky kissed him, the way he moved, wriggling and rolling and panting— it had fried Bucky's brain. 

The elevator glides to a stop. It’s a sharp contrast to the steel and glass building when he steps out onto the Persian carpet of the patriarch’s penthouse.

The smell of blood in the room is nothing new, but the crowd gathered in the large open space is a little disconcerting. They have meetings up here sometimes, but usually it’s only Pierce, Bucky, Fury and sometimes Maria.

Rumlow is leaning against the bar and there are at least six other members present, all looking as tense as he feels. Fury is standing near the windows, arms crossed, looking as intimidating as ever. Natasha is tucked in the corner, and while taking the best vantage point is not unusual for her, the blood on her arms is. As Bucky moves into the room, he can see her pants are torn across the thighs as well, and streaked with blood from wounds her body has since forgiven.

“There you are,” Pierce says, opening his arms to greet him. His smile is warm but his eyes are sharp. Bucky's seen that look enough times to know whatever happens next won't end well for him. Pierce presses a kiss to the corner of Bucky's mouth and pulls him into the room. “We need to talk.”

Bucky casts a glance at Natasha, but her eyes are stony and unreadable. Pierce nods at Rumlow, who disappears down the hall and reappears a moment later, holding — _no no god please no_ — Steve under his arm.

He looks terrified, and a little pissed, and there’s dried blood on his shirt collar. Rumlow catches Bucky’s eye and licks his lips lasciviously.

Bucky’s arm twitches. He stops himself from vaulting over the couch to tear his head from his shoulders, but barely. 

“So this is the human who’s been stealing you away from us. Unvetted and everything. Dottie tells me you haven’t drank from her in weeks. I'd expect it from Tony, but you?” His tone is even, but his hand on Bucky’s shoulder squeezes tightly.

“I must hand it to you, your tastes are…varied. You know, I'm feeling a little peckish myself. I might just have a drink.”

Pierce crosses the room to wrap his arm around Steve’s shoulders. Bucky tries to send him a message through a stupid blood telepathy that doesn’t exist: _it’s going to be ok_. He hadn’t thought it would happen so soon, he hasn't even had a chance to talk to Clint or Tony, but there's nothing for it. It needs to happen now, for better or worse.

“I’ll try to leave some for you, but you know how I get," Pierce says flippantly.

He’s trying to goad him into doing something stupid so that he can make a point. Bucky knows it, and it’s kind of working. He wills his hands to stay relaxed, not curl into fists, not give anything away. This will work, but only if he gets the jump on them. Pierce is arrogant enough to overestimate Bucky's affection for his maker. Or at least overestimate his hold over Bucky.

When Pierce pulls Steve’s back into his chest and dips his head to his neck, Bucky throws a single glance over to Natasha. She might nod, but he’s already moving.

* * *

It happens too fast for Steve to see. He’s thrown to the floor and a moment later, Pierce’s body drops down in front of him. There’s at wound at his temple and a knife in Bucky’s hand.

The red headed woman stands there, when a moment ago she’d been on the other side of the room. There’s a blonde man next to Rumlow, holding him an inch off the ground with a hand around his throat.

Bucky grabs Rumlow by the front of his shirt and pushes him to the ground, then drives his knife into the base of his skull. No hesitation, no emotion. He flops to the ground next to Pierce. There should be more blood— buckets of it, with two head wounds— but it’s clean, and Steve starts to shake.

Those in the room glance between Bucky and the frankly terrifying black man with the eye patch who’s been watching from the back. Bucky lowers his eyes and dips his head, and the tension in the room dissipates. Steve gets the feeling of power changing hands.

“Clean this up,” the black man says to no one in particular, and two men come forward to remove the bodies, then he flicks his hand over the room.

“You four, come with me.” He turns and walks down the hall.

Bucky scoops Steve up under the arms and sets him on his feet, one arm around his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” he whispers into his ear.

“I think so?”

Rumlow had bitten him, and it had been nothing like with Bucky. The pain was beyond what two sharp teeth should have inflicted, and he’d held Steve down with hands like vices on his arms. He hadn't even drank, had just bitten for the sake of causing pain.

Steve rubs his arm unconsciously and Bucky places his hand gently on the forming bruise. He doesn’t have time to ask any questions before they gather in an office. Bucky drops his arm from around Steve's shoulder, but stands close enough that their arms are still touching. The black man is sitting behind a heavy wood desk holding what looks like a crystal ball.

“Fucking tacky,” he mutters, and sets it back down, then levels his eye on them.

“James, you took an unvetted companion and killed two members of your family. This can’t go unpunished. Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

“No.”

Steve looks up sharply at Bucky. Shouldn’t he explain? Defend himself? Bucky does neither; just stands there, silent and unmoving. The man behind the desk surveys Bucky for a long time, then looks at Steve. Steve does his best not to wither, but it’s been a long day.

“One week solitary for each of your crimes.”

The redheaded woman standing next to Bucky hisses through her teeth.

“That’ll kill him.”

Bucky just lets go of Steve and turns toward the door. But before he leaves, he wraps a hand around the woman's wrist. He speaks quietly, but Steve’s hearing has been getting better since Bucky’s been feeding from him.

“When I get out, don’t let me go to him. You have to protect him.” She nods, and Bucky leaves without a backward glance. The wooden door opens from the outside and shuts behind him. Steve blinks after him and turns back to the man behind the desk, who has more punishments to dispense.

“Natalia. One week.” She nods. “Clint.”

He turns to the blonde man loitering at the back of the room; the one who hadn’t let Rumlow run.

“Three days.”

“Give me a week,” he says coolly.

“Whatever.” The man behind the desk waves them away, and then he and Steve are alone. The man takes a deep breath.

“It goes without saying that you’ll never speak of this to anyone.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I apologize for your treatment; you will be compensated fairly. Darcy will see you out.” 

The door opens and there’s a pretty dark-haired girl waiting for him. Steve doesn’t move. Leaving here without Bucky feels wrong.

“Can I— You’ll let me see Bucky again, won’t you?” 

“If you check out, and if he survives his sentence, what James does is none of my concern.”

That’s as good an answer as he’s going to get, so Steve lets the pretty girl drive him home.

* * *

Sharon notices.

“His name.” She has her arms crossed over her chest and that tough-nut CIA badass look on her face that she must’ve learned in a past life.

“Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me, Rogers. You’re moping. What’s his name and where does he live so I can kick his ass?”

Steve rubs his eyes, too tired to be annoyed at her well-meaning intrusion. He deflects (he’s getting pretty good at that) by talking about the kid in 308 who had a miraculous recovery overnight.

His supply of Bucky’s blood is running low. He’s not sure how little he can give a patient in order for it to work, but he’s pitiful at hoarding it. A kid gets a papercut these days and he runs for the vial.

He just needs some good news in his life.

The $50,000 check he receives in the mail from S.H.I.E.L.D Enterprises isn't exactly what he had in mind. He holds onto it for a week before it starts haunting his dreams. He sweats through his shirt when he deposits it, but it goes through with no red flags. It in no way makes sleeping at night any easier, with the thought of Bucky slowly starving to death because of him, but it does pay off a good chunk of his student loans. 

* * *

When Bucky’s three week sentence is up, Steve waits one day, then goes to the Tower. There are security guards in the corners and businesspeople milling about, talking on cell phones and holding coffee cups. At the front desk, the receptionist smiles coolly at him.

“I’m here to see…Bucky Barnes?” 

“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Barnes is indisposed. Would you like to leave a message?”

Indisposed could mean any number of things. Like that Bucky just doesn't want to see him— right now or ever again. He is the monkey wrench that forced Bucky to murder two of his family. Not to mention they could just lie to him and Bucky could actually be dead.

Steve begins to realize Bucky might be gone from his life for good. He might never get to touch him again, never kiss him again. A bad taste settles in his mouth at the same time a bad feeling twists low in his gut. 

“Ah— no. Thanks.”

When he walks out onto the street, his feet strangely numb, the red-headed woman is leaning against the building next to the doors. 

“We never did meet. Natasha.” He shakes her hand. She's wearing dark blue jeans with a plain black shirt and utilitarian short-boots. The pedestrians that wash around them hold their coats tight against the chilly breeze, but Natasha and her short sleeves don't seem to notice it.

“He’s ok, but he’d kill me if I let you anywhere near him right now.”

Steve’s shoulders let go of the tension he’s been carrying for the past 23 days and it's an actual struggle to stay upright. _Bucky's **alive**._ (Sorta?) 

“Need a lift home?” He shakes his head. She'd helped him, and he's grateful to her, but he's not in the mood for company— vampire or otherwise. He'll be surprised if he even makes it to his apartment before he falls apart; he'd rather not have any more witnesses to him crying in a taxi cab than absolutely necessary.

“Thanks, I’m ok. See you around.”

She doesn't smile exactly, but she looks at him like she knows just what he's thinking. It's simultaneously comforting and unnerving. “You bet.”

* * *

Natasha shows up at his apartment a few days later, anyway. She's wearing floral print leggings and a teal tunic and it's so at odds with what he knows of her that he can only stare.

“Can I come in?” she asks when Steve makes no move. She seems pleased by his speechlessness, then visibly softens. Despite the flowers on her sandals, she looks dangerous in a way Bucky never did, like she might actually rip his head off if given provocation. But her smile is sincere, so he steps aside.

They talk about nothing for twenty minutes— the hospital, the city, the weather— over cups of coffee at the kitchen counter. She's easy to talk to, Steve's not sure why that surprises him. Maybe she's more like Bucky than he'd originally thought.

“Did Bucky send you?”

The tilt of her lips is sympathetic. “No. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

She looks genuinely regretful. “Do you have any more of his blood?”

“No.” He’d used it all up days ago. "Did he get in trouble for that too?" 

Natasha shakes her head. "Nick doesn't know." She takes a breath and holds it for a second before speaking, and Steve thinks that's probably as close to hesitation as she gets. 

“I’m sorry. I know you want to— to help.” It sounds like she hasn’t used any of these words in a long time. “But too many miracles and people start to look closer. We’re not ready for that kind of attention.”

Steve has a lot of questions, but he's not sure where to start, so he doesn't. Natasha seems to be waiting for something, but when he's quiet, says softly, "He just went three weeks without feeding. He's afraid he'll hurt you."

This seems like a fairly ridiculous statement, one that Steve hadn't really considered before. The relief that Bucky doesn't hate him— that Natasha doesn't hate him, come to think of it— for causing such trouble amongst their family is enough to make his vision swim.

"He wouldn't hurt me," Steve whispers to his coffee. When he blinks away the tears and looks up at her, she's smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> PS I wrote this book, maybe you might like it:  
> http://www.amazon.com/Nautical-Miles-N-L-LaFoille-ebook/dp/B00AK3YIRI


	6. Go to Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky goes eerily still. He’s facing away, but when he turns, Steve wants to take a step backward. The anger burning in his blue-grey eyes is much deeper than Steve could've anticipated.
> 
> The despair simmering underneath it is a surprise, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening for this chapter, and for your life in general:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-dQKIOOUIc

After surviving his sentence, Bucky's transgression seems to have been forgiven. The family is more at ease under Fury's leadership, with the cancer rooted out. Bucky has apologized to Erik, Rumlow's maker, who stoically accepted. 

Once he's strong enough, he and Natasha are called into a meeting with Fury. As aboveboard as most of their practices are— rental properties, restaurants, even the vineyard in France where Bucky was turned— Pierce ran some shady operations. Fury shuts down those he can immediately, but there are some deals that only his children know about.

Fury gets about five words into a speech about how Pierce is gone and they don't have to keep his secrets anymore when Bucky reaches forward to grab a legal pad and pen from Fury's desk.

"The guns," he says, jotting down an address. 

"The girls," Natasha says quietly, taking the pad from him and scrawling something, then tossing then pen down as if it burned her.

* * *

There's a lingering bitterness straining his relationship with Natasha. She won't speak of what happened to her the day he killed Pierce, but Bucky can guess enough of it that he won't make her dredge it up again. She did what she could to protect his secret, and was punished for it.

Bucky’s waiting for her to say something, waiting for her to condemn him. She acts no different toward him, even keeps her promise to watch out for Steve, but he feels the tension all the same.

“He was my maker, too,” she says abruptly, when they're standing shoulder to shoulder in the surveillance room, watching the security cameras in the Tower. By the hardness in her voice, Bucky’s sure there’s nothing she’d rather say less. He turns toward her.

“He didn’t care about us, Natasha. He used us, for decades, to get whatever he wanted. We were his weapons, nothing more.”

“I know, ok,” she snaps. “I know that. But he was…”

Seeing her falter is probably as uncomfortable for him as it is for her. She lets him pull her by her shoulders into an embrace. 

“Yeah,” he presses a kiss to her forehead and she melts against him, balling her fists in the back of his shirt. “He was.”

* * *

After three days of drinking from blood bags— stale and bitter— and several more days of carefully controlled feedings with companions— unsatisfying and _wrong_ — Bucky is probably strong enough to see Steve, but he still hesitates.

He’d nearly gotten Steve killed, and he’d displayed the kind of brutality that's part of his nature now. Pierce may be gone, but Bucky’s life still isn’t safe for a human. _Bucky_ isn’t safe.

Even if Steve still wants to see him, Bucky won’t put him at risk like that. Steve is everything Bucky wishes he could be; everything that’s good in this world. He is to be protected.

He’s coming from the companion floor after another unsatisfying feeding with a very confused Gwen when the elevator doors open and Natasha is there, leaning against the back wall. She doesn’t move, so he steps on and jabs the button for the lower level with probably too much force.

“He’s in love with you,” she says. The certainty in her voice destroys him. He crushes his jaw and the simultaneous blooming happiness and overwhelming despair in his chest threatens to knock him on his ass.

“What the fuck do you know about love?” he snaps, and regrets it immediately. Tash has been through just as much shit as him, maybe more. He knows how devoted she and Clint are to each other, how hard it was for her to win back that kind of freedom.

“More than you, apparently.” She doesn’t sound angry with him, though she should be, and that in itself is cause for alarm. She touches his wrist in a gesture of solidarity that he doesn’t deserve when she gets off on her floor.

His selfishness almost got Steve killed once. Bucky won’t be making that mistake again. He won’t go to Steve, won’t cast a shadow over the sun, won’t ruin him. But he will watch out for him. God knows he needs someone at his six, the man has no sense of self preservation.

A generous donation to the right department fast-tracks the streetlamp repair to light Steve’s way. A few sincere threats clear the sidewalk of potential hazards. If all he can do is watch his back from the shadows, Bucky will do it for the rest of Steve’s short human life and be grateful for the opportunity.

* * *

Another week passes. Steve doesn’t visit the Tower again. If Bucky wants to see him, he knows where to find him.

He’s walking home after another 24-hour shift when he notices the streetlamp that had been burnt out for weeks has finally been replaced. He also realizes the gang of teenagers who’d taken a liking to hanging out on this corner haven’t been here for a while. He looks around the shadows hopefully, but he's alone.

His apartment building is within sight and he relaxes his hold on the pepper spray in his pocket when he hears an anxious feminine voice.

“Leave me alone, asshole.”

A woman in high heels is holding her coat tightly around herself, despite the warm spring night, walking on the other side of the street toward Steve.

“I just wanna make sure you get home ok, sweetie.” The man following her is nondescript, dark hair, heavy build. Steve takes a mental picture for the police report he’s sure will follow.

“Hey,” he shouts, and the woman looks up, relief etching across her features. “Leave her alone.”

She crosses the street kiddycorner and huddles a few feet behind Steve. His apartment is still a hundred yards up and the man is closing in too fast for them to get to the door.

“Stay out of it, faggot.”

And _that_ right there— Steve lights up like a roman candle, spewing expletives, dropping his messenger bag and stripping out of his coat like he’s in a bare-knuckle boxing match.

What the fuck is wrong with him? He’s gonna get himself killed. But _god_ it feels so good to let it go. All the frustration and anger and sadness rolls off him in a rage.

The man takes three quick steps to close the distance between them and cocks a fist. Steve pulls his own fists up in front of his face to block a blow that never comes.

The man is suddenly on his back on the pavement and Bucky is standing there, bloody fist and flashing eyes. There’s a rumbling coming from his direction and Steve realizes he’s growling.

“Christ, Steve I shoulda known.”

“Bucky,” is all Steve can say as he’s towed up to his apartment.

“I leave for five fucking minutes and you—“ Steve wrenches out of his grip in the stairwell.

“Except it wasn’t five minutes was it? You were gone for over a month!” Bucky pins him with a dark look.

“Thirty five fucking days. I know Steve, thank you very much.” He scoffs, then mutters, “No sense of self fucking preservation.”

Bucky stalks up the stairs and plucks the keys from Steve's pocket—"Hey!"

“He’da beat you to a pulp. Coulda killed you!”

“Yeah, well, lucky thing you were there,” Steve spits pointedly. Bucky’s pacing back and forth across his living room, shoving his hands through his hair. He’s beautiful like this, though Steve’s sure he wouldn’t appreciate hearing it just now.

“You’re goddamn right. But I won’t always be. I shouldn’ta been there tonight.”

“I ain’t gonna change now, Buck. You’re just gonna have to stick around," Steve shrugs. Bucky goes eerily still. He’s facing away, but when he turns, Steve wants to take a step backward. The anger burning in his blue-grey eyes is much deeper than Steve could've anticipated. The despair simmering underneath it is a surprise, though.

“My life is inherently dangerous. I’ll bring you more trouble than you can afford.”

Steve pulls out the big guns. The argument was mostly out of habit, anyway, and the lingering frustration sloughs away. He lowers his voice to a whisper.

“I missed you.”

Apparently, that’s all he needed to say. Bucky’s face crumples, his whole body sagging.

He crosses the distance between them and pulls Steve into the hard planes of his chest. He sighs, “I missed you too. God, so much. Punk,” he murmurs fondly into his hair.

Steve opens his mouth to retort, but Bucky swallows the sound with a kiss.

Since making their blood exchange long term, Steve hadn’t gone two consecutive days without seeing Bucky. The past 35 have been torturous, and having him close again, having his lips and his tongue and his body is making his every nerve ending fire and crackle; heat simmering just under his skin.

Steve never was sure what he was to Bucky, somewhere between blood bag and charity-boyfriend, but now he starts to understand that it's more.

Bucky kisses him like it’s the last time, crushing them together, licking into his mouth like he wants to climb inside. He walks Steve backward gracefully, hands roaming under his shirt and over his ass.

They make it to his bedroom for the very first time. Steve makes his bed every morning with hospital corners— a habit passed down from his mom— and Bucky tears the comforter away with a swipe of his hand. He presses Steve down into the mattress and when his scrub pants are halfway down his legs, Bucky pauses. He looks up with uncertainty and hopefulness.

"Do you want—"

"Yes," Steve says on a sigh. "Please."

Bucky groans and deftly relieves Steve of his scrubs. When Steve’s naked underneath him, Bucky pauses just to look. 

“Buck,” he protests, but Bucky shushes him.

“Been wantin’ this since the first time I saw you.”

A helpless noise escapes Steve, then he orders firmly, “Take your clothes off." Bucky’s mouth falls open and he complies, slowly. With every inch of new skin, Steve loses his mind a little more. His mouth waters and he licks his lips; he wants to taste all of it.

Bucky peels off his jeans, eyes locked on Steve’s face, and his cock bobs over Steve’s, hard and leaking, dripping precome onto his thighs. Steve, beyond words, points weakly to the nightstand, where Bucky fishes out a bottle of lube.

Bucky kisses him, his face and his neck as he presses one finger inside. He works him open, offering encouragement with every other word. No one’s ever been so… vocal… with him before and Steve is floating beyond the planes of existence, his whole body a field of sensation.

“So good, Stevie, you look so good. God I wanna fuck you, gonna fuck you so hard, open up for me baby.”

Steve’s about to go up in flames, burn the whole goddamn place down around their ears and he doesn’t even care— let it all turn to ash. 

“Bucky please, please,” is all he can say, and Bucky is all too happy to appease him. When he pushes inside, Bucky kisses him tenderly— too sweet— and tears prick the back of Steve’s eyelids. How did this happen to him?

Bucky’s too far gone to take it slow, and Steve hisses through his teeth at the pleasure that rips through him when Bucky thrusts just right.

“Harder,” he growls and Bucky moans in response. Steve can feel the power smoldering under Bucky’s skin, strength coiled tight and danger blistering hot.

He comes with a choked-off yell into Bucky’s fist when Bucky comes inside of him, panting his name hotly in his ear. Steve is still riding the waves of it when Bucky scrapes his teeth along the sensitive skin under his jaw— a silent question. Steve tips his chin up, and in case Bucky doesn’t get the message, offers a breathy “Yes.”

A jolt of electricity, then ripples of pleasure wash through his boneless body when Bucky’s teeth pierce his skin. He sucks shallowly and licks at the wounds, his cock twitching inside of Steve.

It’s bliss; pure, unadulterated ecstasy and Steve leaves his body to float on the waves of it, until Bucky’s voice brings him back.

“—use your own blood so you could help people no matter what happens to me. And it’s not like you’d have to stick around with me. Although I hope….”

Bucky’s cleaned them up halfheartedly with the sheet and has Steve tucked against his chest. He realizes Steve is only half listening and stops.

“Huh?” Steve says.

“Uh, I was just saying, I was hoping maybe you might be willing to— to be a monster with me?”

* * *

He hasn’t stammered since 1930, but here he is stuttering and mumbling like a… like a human. And all for Steve Rogers.

“You’re not a monster, Buck,” he says softly.

Look at him, soothing the man who’s asking to kill him. Bucky kind of wants to cry. Hasn’t done _that_ since 1930 either.

While in solitary, Bucky spent a lot of time thinking about how to keep Steve with him forever. He hadn't meant to bring it up so soon, but he's fucked out and boneless, and probably more in love than he should be.

“I think I could maybe not be,” Bucky says hesitantly, “if I was with you.”

Steve lifts his head from Bucky’s chest and puts a hand on his cheek.

“You are _not_ a monster,” he repeats with feeling. Not answering his question, though. Bucky smiles tightly, ready to let him off the hook.

“But if you turned me— then you wouldn’t be able to— to drink from me,” Steve says, confused. Bucky shrugs.

“No, but there’s plenty of other blood in the world.”

“But if you’re not drinking my blood then why would you…want me to…“

He doesn’t get it. How does he not get it?

“Steve,” Bucky says quietly, and it’s the most heartbreaking sound.

Oh. Steve’s world shifts a little bit on its axis. _Oh._

Bucky looks like he’s searching for words and can’t find them.

“How do you do it?” Steve asks. Curious, Bucky thinks, but not afraid. Not like he’s actually considering it. Steve is too bright to be a shadow in the dark. Bucky should’ve known. Shouldn’t have even hoped.

“Well you’d have to…you’d have to die with my blood in your system. It can be peaceful, the right mix of drugs and you just… go to sleep. Some people it takes just a couple hours, some it takes a couple days. But then, you wake up. You wouldn’t even have to tell your friends or family, not for a while anyway. Then you’d have to make them think you died. That’s the hardest part. The drinking blood you get used to. Watching the people you love die around you— you never get used to that.”

Steve considers this, then asks, “Do newbies really lose their shit at the smell of blood?”

Bucky looks at him hard for a long moment before answering.

“Depends on the kind of person you are. Tony still does, and he was made over thirty years ago. Tasha never did, but she was a ballet dancer in Russia.”

“Did you?”

“For a while. I learned to control it pretty quickly. Pierce never did like anything to be sloppy.”

Something in his tone makes pieces click together in Steve’s mind. “He made you,” he says, and it’s not really a question so Bucky doesn’t respond. “Did you ever…turn somebody?”

Bucky shakes his head. “In our family, you can only make one in your lifetime. Like how people in China can only have one kid. Population control. I’m pretty sure Fury’s not gonna change that rule.”

“You wanna use your one-off on me?” It’s hard to parse Steve’s tone, to gauge his feelings by context. Disbelief? A touch of gratitude?

Bucky can’t think of the words that would encompass the vastness of the feeling tightening his chest— _hope, love, joy_ — so he just says, “Yes.”

* * *

Bucky can’t stand the teetering anticipation of watching Steve mull over his request, so he kisses him again and makes him forget what they’d been talking about.

He should’ve known Steve is a persistent bastard.

He stays at Steve’s apartment that night, without an invitation. He just doesn’t leave and Steve seems happy enough to have him there. They order pizza and let it grow cold on the countertop while they lose time in each other.

Steve drifts asleep around 3 a.m., and Bucky feels a little guilty for keeping him up so late after working a full shift at the hospital, but only a little.

Bucky sleeps for the few hours he needs, then watches Steve’s eyelids flutter as he dreams.

When he opens his eyes, Bucky is nose to nose with him, and he says, “I wanna do it.”

He can’t be— “Do what?”

Steve grins and throws his leg over Bucky’s hips, pushing him on his back so he can kiss him.

“I want you to turn me.”

“You don’t have to decide now,” Bucky's first few words are muffled by Steve’s lips, until he trails them down under his jaw. “Take a couple weeks, think about it.”

“I don’t need to think about it, Buck,” Steve says, kissing and licking down his chest with a wicked smile, heading further down. Bucky takes him by the arms and pulls him back.

Steve smiles sweetly in the face of Bucky’s panic; a pillar of fortitude, the strongest of anchors. “I want forever with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from this:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9EdbZ6WjOA  
> Do me a favor and listen to it.


	7. Interview with the Vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve nods and tips his face up to receive a kiss, but Bucky’s looking torn.
> 
> “Are you sure?”
> 
> Steve grabs Bucky’s face with both hands.
> 
> “As long as you’re walking this earth, I want to be beside you. To the end of the line.”

Steve expected Bucky would just be able to turn him once he agreed to it. He didn’t expect the full-blown interview with the family.

They didn't _call_ it an interview of course, probably to avoid _Interview with the Vampire_ jokes. Fury had called it a "sit down," which —please, be more gangster— was infinitely more terrifying.

Steve sits in the same library as before, except it’s been stripped of the gaudy opulence and is decorated in the complete opposite minimalist style. Fury sits behind a glass and steel desk, flanked in black leather chairs by Maria and a nondescript man with a kind smile who they call Phil. Steve feels better for him being there.

“Why do you want to join the family?”

It’s impossible to guess what they want him to say, and that’s not really a good way to start of a relationship that’s supposed to last forever anyway, so Steve tells the truth.

“I’ve always been small and sick. Couldn’t help Mrs. Callahan carry her groceries up the steps because my lungs couldn’t take it, couldn’t defend anybody if they needed help. I do what I can at the hospital, but if I were stronger, I could do so much more.” Phil is smiling, but Maria and Fury show no emotion. “Plus I want to be with Bucky,” he tacks on, because yeah, that’s part of it too.

“Have you been coerced into this decision?” Though it’s asked in the glossy monotone of a required question, Steve still rankles.

“What? No,” he says, indignant on both he and Bucky’s behalf. Fury’s level look says _Calm down Rogers, it was just a question,_  as clearly as if he had spoken aloud. Steve wonders if he actually does possess telepathy or just a really expressive eye.

Bucky warned him that they might ask him to leave the room to deliberate, but when they’ve asked the last question, Fury glances at his cohorts and says, by wordless unanimous agreement, “Rogers, we’d be pleased—“

“—honored, really—“ (Phil is the most _human_ vampire Steve has met.)

“—to accept you into the family.”

Bucky’s waiting for him in the hall outside the room. Steve holds his arms out at his sides, “I’m in.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “They said already?”

Steve nods and tips his face up to receive a kiss, but Bucky’s looking torn.

“Are you _sure_?”

Steve grabs Bucky’s face with both hands.

“As long as you’re walking this earth, I want to be beside you. To the end of the line.”

* * *

When Bucky drinks from him for the very last time, Steve kisses the taste of his own blood out of his mouth.

“Are you going to miss this?”

Bucky hums, contemplating.

“I’m going to miss making you melt.” Kiss, nip. “I mean, I’m still going to bite you, I just won’t be able to drink.” Kiss, lick, grin. “And come to think, I do know plenty of other ways to make you melt.” 

Bucky demonstrates several of them, until Steve is so fucked out he can barely speak. Bucky is insufferably smug afterward but Steve can’t quite find it in him to be annoyed.

* * *

“We’re not actually immortal, just hard to kill. Accelerated healing makes any wound pretty much fixable unless it’s to the brain. Without the controls telling the body to heal, we’re done for.”

Steve has already told Bucky _yes, yes, please_ , but he’s determined to give Steve the full rundown. Steve thinks he might be trying to talk him out of it, but he’s only succeeding in making Steve even more motivated. Especially when he’s lying naked on Steve’s bed, hands folded behind his head and ankles crossed casually. Steve wants to back up so he can admire the whole picture, but that would mean putting space between them, which he’s not willing to do.

“Lifespan is generally about 800 years or so, before the organs just give out. The virus that supports the whole ‘undead’ thing does actually eat away at the body very slowly.”

Eight hundred years. Steve’s imagination isn’t up to the task of wondering what he might see in the span of his new life.

“D’you think there’ll be men on Mars by then?”

Bucky shrugs, “I dunno, Stevie. I’m still waitin’ for the flying cars.”

Steve looks up at the ceiling, but his eyes are far away. “We’re gonna see the future.”

He can feel Bucky looking at him, before he wiggles closer and wraps Steve up with his arms and legs. He seems perplexed by Steve’s certainty, but it was a pretty easy decision. Steve's just not sure how to explain it, the feeling he gets when they're together; the sense of rightness, of belonging.

* * *

Steve sits on the edge of Bucky’s bed and drinks a glass of Bucky’s blood; it’s thick and tastes like liver and the whole thing is pretty disgusting, really, but he chokes down more than he probably needs to.

He lays back as Natasha comes in, setting a tray with a syringe on the bedside table. She leans down and presses an unexpected kiss to his forehead.

“You can back out at any time. We can wait,” Bucky’s standing by the window, nervous but trying not to show it.

“Really? Gosh, why didn’t you say so?”

“Alright, no need to be a smartass.” Bucky sits at the edge of the bed and takes Steve’s hand.

“I thought that’s what you liked about me." 

“No, that I tolerate. What I like about you is everything else.”

Natasha huffs as she closes the door behind her and Bucky takes a deep breath.

“Are you ready?”

Steve nods. He’s certain, but he’s still nervous. “Not gettin’ any younger over here.”

Bucky doesn’t even rise to the bait; the only outward sign of his own anxieties.

Bucky kisses him as he inserts the needle into his vein and depresses the plunger. He holds Steve's hand as his heart stops and only cries a little against his chest.

* * *

When he wakes up (after _one_ hour, like he just can’t _wait_ ) Bucky’s looking at him in awe.

He feels energy shooting through his every nerve, vitality like he never had before. Power. Like he could jump and reach the stars. He can feel the movement of the air in the room, dust particles brushing against his skin, the weave of the comforter, cotton and polyester. 

He looks down at his palms. “What the shit, Buck?”

His chest is broad and thick, his waist tapered and cut. His jeans are uncomfortably tight and his shirt is stretched thin over his biceps. He'd gotten bigger and stronger after being exposed to droplets of Bucky's blood, but drinking a whole glass— he's easily 6', probably more, and feels like a stranger in his own body.

Bucky barks a bright laugh, “I don’t know man, but _goddamn._ ”

Being a vampire doesn't, at this moment, seem quite as strange as being so _big_.

Steve swings his legs off the bed and tentatively stands up, vaguely surprised that he's able to do so on these tree trunks. Bucky has backed up a little, and Steve finds he has to look slightly down at him.

Bucky is blinking up at him with big blue eyes, looking relieved and euphoric and utterly in love. He reaches up and Steve bends down to meet him. It reminds him of the time Bucky had pulled him onto his lap when he drank from him, after taking him out for a nice dinner at his family's restaurant. The angle, the the illusion of control—except it's not an illusion anymore.

"Sit, sit." Bucky pushes at his chest and he sinks back down onto the edge of the bed. Bucky crawls into his lap, straddling his thighs. The touch of Bucky's lips on his skin is sending plumes of fire zinging through him. Steve wants so much that he can't decide what to do first, so he lets Bucky push him back and strip him of his clothes.

"Oh, _Stevie_ ," he mutters against Steve's skin, kissing down his chest. The sensations are so acute Steve has to close his eyes and focus on his breathing. He's honestly not sure if it feels good or if it hurts. A little of both, probably.

"Do you want me to stop?" Bucky asks, hovering above his dick. The fucking asshole, like Steve can even speak. He makes a strangled noise and Bucky seems to interpret it correctly, because takes Steve's cock into his mouth. 

Two seconds later, the very first time Bucky sucks hard as he pulls up, Steve comes harder than he ever has in his life. He'd be embarrassed if he had any higher brain function left, but as it is, he can only look down at Bucky with wonder.

* * *

Steve catches Bucky looking longingly at him sometimes, and it makes him feel…he’s not sure what. Angry? Guilty? 

“I like it, don’t get me wrong," Bucky says, "I like it a _helluva_ lot. But sometimes I miss the way you used to fit under me.”

Steve smiles, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, but you fit under me now.”

Steve can’t help it if his grin takes on a slightly predatory edge. They’ve broken three beds already; have taken to fucking against the wall to spare the furniture any more abuse. He had no idea a body could _feel_ this much.

He's still adjusting to his new strength and new urges, drinking from blood bags under lock and key on Bucky's floor at the Tower until he's allowed to be around humans again. But Steve's not sure if he ever _wants_ to leave. He has everything he needs right here.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, drawing him in like a magnet with just his eyes, the way only he can. (And he has _forever_ with this man? How could anyone say they’re cursed? It’s a blessing the likes of which Steve’s never known.) “Yeah I like that too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for hanging with me! 
> 
> Look our for more snapshots of this world that I'll be posting in the Bloodstream series.
> 
>  
> 
> <3


End file.
